


if that ain't home, i don't know what is

by distantdreaming



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2019-09-20 13:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17023920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantdreaming/pseuds/distantdreaming
Summary: the angsty messy college au we all deserve after season eight. allura and adam included.__Keith's not really a social butterfly, and that's fine. Shiro's social enough for both of them, and someone has to be the responsible sibling and feed the cats on time, and it's easier when he's left alone anyway. The pretty blue eyes and crooked smile of Shiro's friend be damned, Keith is better left alone.Right?





	1. so don't let me, don't let me, don't let me down

**Author's Note:**

> fic title from trophy eyes' _a cotton candy sky,_ first chapter title from the chainsmoker's _don't let me down_ , which is the song playing at the start of the chapter.  
> __
> 
> i'm back °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖° 
> 
> fuck season eight. that's all i have to say on THAT.
> 
> those of you that know me (if there's anyone left) know that i am GARBAGE at regular updates, but i finally know why!!!! i have adhd lmao. i deadass just can't focus enough to write in the past year or so, so it's been annoying. but the semester from hell is finally over, and i somehow passed, so hopefully, this makes up for it? i don't plan on dropping my iwaoi or my solangelo fics, but i do need time to reread them and remember where the fuck i was going and find the drive behind them again, and season eight pissed me off so this is my reaction. no idea how long it'll be or where it's going, but expect my usual heavy-handed angst and metaphors and dramatic fluff, but hopefully with better writing after all these years.
> 
> yell at me if i forget to update, because i promise i will forget to write out the ideas i already have unless i can stick up enough reminders in my phone and on post-it notes lmao. teamwork w me and yell at me if it's been a bit, i won't mind!

College parties aren’t as extra as the movies make them seem.

Maybe _rich_ college parties are, maybe frat parties are, but this house party shit is just kind of underwhelming. There’s music, but people are talking over it and standing in clumps, solo cups in hand and the lighting dimmed down low. There’s people in the backyard, kind of wandering, one couple making out on the couch and laughter coming from the bathroom, but that’s about it.

Keith isn’t a party person, and honestly, he’s glad he’s not missing much. There’s a repetitive chorus and a catchy beat, and it’s something he’d usually not mind dancing to, but right now he’s only here to pick up his dumbass brother, who is on the outs with his boyfriend and drank a little too much to safely drive himself.

“KeeeiiiiIIITH,” he hears, a drawn-out slur and then there’s a massive weight on his back and the just slightly cool metal of Shiro’s prosthetic arm draped over his shoulders, fingers wiggling playfully.

He’s used to Shiro’s weight, thankfully, because if he wasn’t he’d have just been flattened to the floor since Shiro might as well just fucking go into bodybuilding already, since his biceps are about the size of Keith’s head. Instead of stumbling down, though, Keith only rolls his eyes skyward and drags the arm to a better position, so he’s able to guide Shiro’s steps to be a bit more stable. “Great, you found me. Ready to go?”

“Keith,” Shiro says, sage, pointing outside at the little fire pit. “Have you been by that fire? It’s so _warm_ , it’s so _nice_.”

“That’s amazing, I bet.” Keith forces Shiro’s steps to turn, leading him toward the front door. “I’m glad you had fun. Do you have all your shit?”

Shiro pats himself down with his free hand, making a very concentrated face, before nodding a little, wobbly. “Think so!”

“Cool, you can get whatever you forgot later.” Shiro’s not usually one to forget anything, but Keith’s not usually one to care when he actually does, so he pulls the front door open and tugs Shiro over the threshold and into the night’s chill.

Keith shivers as the wind rushes up under his jacket and sneaks under the hem of his shirt, dragging icy fingers up his chest. Shiro, drunk and also about twice Keith’s weight, only grins delightedly at the breeze. Fucking asshole.

It’s a bit of an awkward task, maneuvering Shiro’s bulky body into the backseat of his own car, since Keith had flat out refused to let him drive himself to the party with the intention to get drunk and had driven him instead and hung out at a nearby bookstore until Shiro texted. He manages it, though, and Shiro pulls a hoodie that might be his and also might be Keith’s into a pillow and curls up contentedly.

Rolling his eyes, Keith shuts the door and head around to the driver’s side, but before he gets there, someone calls out Shiro’s name.

Shiro sure as hell isn’t gonna respond since he can’t even hear it and probably wouldn’t even process it if he did, so Keith turns to the voice, arching a brow and stuffing his hands into his back pockets to get them out of the chill.

It’s some guy, all long tan limbs and blue eyes and unruly brown hair, holding out a vest that Keith remembers Shiro had been wearing earlier. “This is Shiro’s, I saw you guys leaving and I don’t want him to forget it!”

“Thanks,” Keith says, holding out a hand and taking it from the guy. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem! I’m glad he’s got a safe ride home!” he guy leans down to see through the window and waves. Keith doesn’t bother looking to see if Shiro notices, opening the passenger side just long enough to throw the vest in.

“I try,” Keith says, dry, shivering again and hoping this guy doesn’t wanna say anything else, because it’s cold as shit and he just wants to go home.

The guy backs up, thankfully, and waves at Keith, too. “Tell Shiro to text me when he wakes so I know he’s all safe and shit. I’m Lance.”

Lance is a little weird (literally no one is nice to Keith without Keith bribing it out of them), Keith notes, but caring. He nods, jogs around to the drivers side, and swings himself in before frostbite can get at his fucking toes.

~

Shiro’s not that hungover the next morning, which means he makes breakfast and Keith doesn’t have to and can instead lay face down on his bed for another twenty minutes and let his cat stay sleeping on his lower back.

Keith had left a note to message Lance on Shiro’s dresser next to the Advil and the water, and then he’d gone into his own room and played _Assassin’s Creed_ until the sun threatened to rise. Shiro normally would’ve given him shit for it, but Shiro was drunk and safely asleep, so Keith got to do what he wanted.

He has a headache, and he knows it’s dehydration that Shiro would’ve prevented, but whatever. He’s an adult, and if his poor life choices earn him a headache and that’s the worst of it, that’s fine. He’ll drink something eventually, but he doesn’t wanna dislodge Red’s comforting weight and he’s kind of still half asleep anyway.

He gets about another half hour of partial alertness before there’s a soft knock on his door frame and the smell of pancakes drifts in pleasantly. He doesn’t move immediately, letting his senses come back online gradually, and Red ends up slipping off of him before he needs to move, and Keith listens to his little feet pad away before dragging himself upright.

He can _feel_ the mess of his hair, so he pulls one of the elastics from his wrist and ties it back, opting into dealing with it later, after food and hydration. He kicks the sheets away, remembers he fell asleep still in his jeans, and shrugs, heading into the kitchen. Why change if he’s already in perfectly good clothes?

Shiro’s made _so many_ pancakes, and it’s probably his way of making up for last night, and Keith’s fine with that, stacking ten in a precarious tower with butter in between each layer, since he hardly ever indulges himself and one cholesterol soaked plate of heaven won’t kill him.

Shiro’s Maine Coon winds around Keith’s legs on the way to the kitchen as Keith’s leaving for the couch, on his way to kitty kibble and giving Red dirty looks, probably. Keith just keeps going, since Black adores him — possibly even more than Shiro, sometimes — and often tries to trip him and kill him as a result.

He hopes Shiro put out Red’s food as well, since Red’s a picky bitch and hates regular kitty kibble and Black’s all about following the rules and will only eat his own food.

As a Bengal, Red likes wet food because it’s full of meat and _really_ likes literal raw meat, but will settle for expensive grain-free fancy kitty kibble if Keith still treats him to his favorites every few days. He’s high-maintenance as hell, and he’s the kind of weirdo cat that loves walks and will 100% physically fight a dog at the slightest provocation, but Keith loves him anyway.  Red has always stood by him, and since Red tends to hate everyone, his love for Keith is even more touching.

“Sorry about last night,” Shiro says predictably as Keith settles on the other side of the couch and hits the PS4 controller with his foot, unpausing _Aladdin_.

“Anytime,” Keith says honestly, cutting a triangle out of five of his pancakes at once and cramming the entire bite in his mouth.

Shiro grins at him, warm, and turns his focus to the movie that he definitely picked, since Shiro’s a hopeless dork.

~

Shiro leaves for work an hour later, and Keith’s not scheduled until three in the afternoon and it’s barely one, so he’s got time to kill before he has to do anything productive with his life.

He goes back to sleep.

Once he’s actually at work in the garage, though, it’s peaceful. Cars don’t require emotions or verbal communication, and Keith likes that about them. Bikes are by far his favorite to work on and he’s the only one in the shop that _can_ , but they’re also rare. He usually gets assigned to junker cars since he has a way of jerryrigging old parts together and getting the cars to come back to life against all odds, and so it isn’t all that surprising that he’s signing out a rustbucket only to have Kolivan waving him over to another one.

It’s blue, or it should’ve been. The paint was faded and patchy from too long sitting in uneven sun and weathering, and the engine had been making a rather concerning rattling noise on its way in, and the interior also looked like it had definitely seen better days.

Leaning against the driver’s side and chatting to Kolivan was none other than that blue-eyed guy from last night, whatever the fuck his name was. Chance? Something like that. Keith remembered it this morning, but it’s gone now.

Kolivan is nodding along to whatever the guy is saying and Keith ignores them both in favor of doing what he does best, which is propping open the hood and seeing just what he was actually working with.

There is _so much duct tape,_ wow. He’s actually legitimately amazed the car made it here, and that’s definitely a foil cap on the oil filter, amazing. He leans his hands on the edges of the hood and blows out a breath, taking it all in.

He’s probably gonna need to hit up the junkyard to get this thing working properly again, but that’s fine. He’s no stranger to it, and Zethrid and her girlfriend are chill enough that they’ll let him climb all over the place until he finds what he needs so long as he pays them properly. But, really, it isn’t his money he’s spending unless he finds shit for his bike, so it’s fine.

“Keith, report.” It’s not a question, but it never really is with Kolivan, who has all the inviting personality of a statue.

“Uhh,” he says, because he’s aware what’s-his-face is just out of view behind the raised hood and can definitely hear him and he shouldn’t be rude, but, honestly. “How the fuck did you even get it this far?”

“Okay, first off, it isn’t mine.” That One Guy comes into view, and he’s got an amused smirk playing around his lips. “It was my Abuela’s, but she hasn’t driven it in months, and I finally convinced Marco — my brother — that he has no idea what he’s doing and he needed to let me take it here. Shiro swears by you, and he said if anyone can get it running, it’s you.”

Shiro needs to stop bragging about him, Keith thinks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “I mean, I can, but it’s gonna be a lot to replace the engine when seventy percent of it is held together by dust and duct tape. I’m genuinely amazed nothing caught on fire to get you here, honestly.”

Blue Eyes (what the _fuck_ was his name, honestly) shrugs. “I’m not dead, so it’s fine, and my dad promised to help fund the restoration. He won’t split the price of an actual car with me, but he’ll help rebuild _this_ , so here we are. I’ll worry about appearances later.”

Keith looks back at the mess of the engine and sighs, reaching back and retying his hair where it had loosened, making sure the bobby pins keeping his bangs out of his eyes hadn’t moved. “Whatever, it’s your money. I’d mention that you can probably get a better deal selling what’s left of this for parts at the junkyard and picking out a different junker car with a better base, though.”

What is his _name?_ It’s gonna bother Keith.

“I’d try that if I knew where the junkyard _was_ , because my dad’s easier to convince with pictures, but I don’t.” Mystery Guy shrugs again.

“That’s what Google’s for,” Keith says instinctively, forgetting it’s rude as fuck until it’s already out of his mouth. Shit.

The guy only laughs, though. “Yeah, probably. I also didn’t think of that, and this is my only method of transportation right now. I don’t wanna try and figure out what buses go to a place I’ve never been before, and lyfts can get pricey on the weekends.”

Keith shuts the hood, purely because he’s getting mildly overwhelmed by just how many pieces he’s gonna need to be looking for if he actually has to work on this thing. “This is gonna cost a _lot_ to fix, so I’d probably advise finding a way. Ask for Ezor, she’s friendlier than Zethrid and likelier to give you a deal on a car.

“What are my chances of getting directions off you, at least?” Guy asks, rising his eyebrows hopefully.

 _Low_ , Keith almost says, but he can feel Kolivan’s eyes on him from across the garage. _Customer service is important_ , Keith’s annoying Kolivan-shaped inner manager says, and he blows out a breath. “Let me take a quick rough inventory of what I’ll be looking for and I’ll just take you there, so you can give your dad a price in both directions.”

Those blue eyes light up as he smiles wide, and Keith looks away really quickly and he isn’t really sure why he does, but okay.

  



	2. everything is fine and nothing matters, weather's always nice inside my head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from all time low's _everything is fine_  
>  __
> 
> yo this is the first time grammarly hasn't given me shit for using too many commas or whatever. am i getting better at writing, or is this because grammarly is giving up on me? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The drive to the junkyard is...well, it certainly isn’t  _ quiet. _

Keith still can’t remember his fucking name, but it’s fine. He’ll have to introduce himself to Ezor, so Keith can just relearn it then, and it’ll be like he’d never forgotten it at all. Either way, the guy doesn’t shut the fuck up.

He talks about how nice of a day it is outside, the song on the radio and how he  _ likes _ it,  _ but _ it’s only because the beat is good, since the lyrics are trash. He talks about how his previous car was given to his sister, who’s older and needs it for her kids, but how that still  _ sucks _ because it just isn’t fair, how is he responsible for her car falling to bits, etcetera (this Keith agrees with, but he doesn’t say, because this guy needs no replies to talk). He talks about how  _ nice _ of a  _ day _ it is.

Keith wants to climb out of the shop’s truck, put this guy in the driver’s seat, and just let himself get run over. It would suck less.

It isn’t that Keith dislikes the guy, but it is that he’s introverted and this much relentless talking from a stranger is making his skin crawl. He pulls into the junkyard and breathes  silent sigh of relief, switching off the engine and hopping out before another word escapes from this guy’s mouth.

Thank  _ fuck _ .

Ezor is actually the one that comes to greet them, which is neat, because she’s much less intimidating (on the surface, at any rate) for the new guy. Her long hair is tied back in her signature high ponytail and still dyed a bright pink streaked with blue and purple. She’s tall in her platform boots and model thin and stunning, and even Keith’s very, very gay self can admit that.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Kogane out here again to pick for scraps!” Ezor calls, her tone light and teasing and yet still with her constant hint of steel. “Weren’t you here two days ago?”

“The thing with working in a garage is that new car come in,” Keith says, shutting the truck’s door. “And new cars need parts, so yeah, I am back.”

“And who’s this tall drink of water?” She asks, gesturing to…

“I’m Lance,”  _ Lance _ , that’s fucking  _ right _ , says, grinning charmingly. “I’m here to see your cars? I was told you have junkers that are in better shape than mine.”

Lance. Keith’s an idiot.

“Ooh, fun! Zethrid actually just inventoried all the ones that still work, so I don’t have to guess!” Ezor sweeps them in with a wave of her arms, which is nice and all, but Keith’s already walking.

He hears Lance come up beside him, and Ezor ensnares him in a rapidfire conversation about what he’s looking for in a car and why, and Keith tunes them out. He’s here for parts, and when he’s here, he doesn’t need his brain to be fully online, so it isn’t.

He loses track of Ezor and Lance quickly, pulling himself up onto one of the big machinery pieces he isn’t technically supposed to climb to get a better view of the junkyard, checking for new junk. He can see all the shipping crates lined up in the back, and it looks like there’s a new car, which is nice. It’s a new looking model from what Keith can see, which honestly isn’t much with the glare of the sun and the fact that he really should get around to getting his eyes checked one of these days.

There’s a nice new pile of unsorted care parts nearby with Zethrid picking through it, though, so he drops down and heads that way.

~

“That boy’s out of his mind. You need  _ all _ of that?” Zethrid makes a face at the list he handed her, which is comically small in her large hand since he’d written it down on a post-it note that already had too much shit on the back to stick to anything anymore.

“Yeah, unfortunately.” Keith pushes his hands in his pockets, shrugging. “Do you know if you have it?”

“Some of it,” Zethrid grunts, shoving the note back at him.

She’s as tall as her girlfriend, but she’s so buff she could probably rip Keith in half with only minimal effort, and he remembers the rumors of her once bending a crowbar in half as a party trick. Ezor’s dyed her hair pink and purple too, but it’s much shorter, her tight curls left natural beyond the brightness of the dye. 

Keith somehow gets along better with Zethrid, even though she’s generally about as personable as a brick. Keith’s probably just also that bad at people, so they mostly don’t talk and when they do it’s usually one word answers to one word questions.

Ezor talks as much as Lance does, so Keith tends to find his way out of that pretty quick, like he did earlier. And now here he is, staring at a mountain of metal that may or may not be useful.

He sighs, peeling off the fingerless gloves he usually wears and shoving them in his pocket, going to his back pocket for the work gloves he’d had the forethought to grab on his way out of the garage and pulling those on. he shrugs the straps of his overalls off of his shoulders to free up his range of motion and digs in, ignoring when his shirt inevitably rides up without the overalls keeping it down.

He’ll eventually properly cut it into a crop top like it so clearly wants to be since it fucking shrank in the wash, but for now it tends to sit just above his hips and he only wears it under overalls because of it. It’s a really nice black cotton, though, so he won’t get rid of it even if it is all short and dumb now.

Someday he’ll remember to cut it properly.

He digs alongside Zethrid in silence, tossing each piece into her sorting piles  and grimacing when the hubcap count starts hitting double digits, because those fuckers take up a lot of room and they’re pretty fucking useless. It’s exasperating, thinking you might get something like a nice untarnished exhaust pipe and getting  _ another fucking hubcap _ and a bruise from whatever it was holding up landing on his arm on the way out of the pile.

Zethrid’s method of upending a shipping crate of junk and picking through like this, by hand, is really annoying. It’s also the best way of finding the best shit, and it lets Keith get it at a discount because he helped sort to reach it, so. Most junkyard owners don’t care about their junk piles, but Ezor and Zethrid sort it all and resell it to artists and mechanics and whoever else inexplicably wants  _ twenty fucking hubcaps _ , holy  _ shit _ .

The hubcab bounces off the asphalt with an unpleasant clang as he throws it, and he sighs, stepping back to roll his shoulders out and try and relieve some of the ache he can feel setting in. Before he can talk himself into digging back in, though, he’s interrupted.

“ _ There _ you are, babe! We’ve been looking for you!” Ezor bounds up happily and smacks a kiss to Zethrid’s cheek, and Zethrid gives her a fond look and a pat on the ass.

Lance trails behind Ezor, typing furiously on his phone. Keith hopes he’s convincing his dad, because even though Keith  _ can _ get that piece of shit back at the shop running again, he’d really, really rather not. He tugs the work gloves off so he can fix his hair again, figuring he might as well wait and see what the verdict is before he digs anymore and his bangs are starting to escape the pins.

He gets his hair completely fixed before he notices Lance had looked up and stayed looking, and he arches a brow, dropping his arms and absently tugging his shirt back down. Lance blinks quickly and shakes his head like he’s dislodging a thought before flashing him a grin.

“Dad says I can pick out a new car, but I have to get the approval of a my mechanic. Help me?” He points back in the direction he came, excited.

“Oh, thank god,” Keith mumbles, nodding. Lance’s father is a reasonable, which is good, and it makes Keith’s job much, much easier.

~

Lance ends up with another blue car, but this one is nice and compact and will save him gas money and only needs a few parts and a paint job. The interior of it is actually still in decent condition, which is a bonus, and Lance is pleased with the price of only $1200. He writes a check and Keith and Zethrid haggle over the parts the car needs, and then that transaction is completed too.

Keith gets to drive back to the garage alone, which is great, and Lance tails him in his new car. Ezor and Zethrid will come fetch the shitshow he’d first driven in with later, and pay Lance whatever they think it’s worth, warning it won’t be too much judging by the photos Lance has of it and the laundry list of parts Keith had asked for.

Lance doesn’t care, so Keith doesn’t care; he just wants that thing out of his workspace so he doesn’t need to look at it.

~

It takes a few hours of work to tune up the “new” car so it goes from running to practically purring, and Keith’s so tired afterwards he barely hears half of what Lance says and just accepts the payment slip, pocketing the receipt to give to Kolivan in the morning, since he’d already left for the day.

Keith goes home and showers off all the grease and sweat, collapsing into bed pretty much immediately after and letting Red bully him into whatever way Red wants to sleep on him this particular night. It’s been a long day considering he only fixed two cars, but the junkyard always wears him out.

Red decides on his chest, poking little claws against his skin and through his old tee so Keith knows he’s still a badass and Keith is nothing but kneadable dough, and then he curls up and hits Keith in the nose with his tail on the way down. Keith still runs a hand over his fur, because even if his cat is an asshole, he loves him.

He can hear Shiro talking on the phone, too muffled to make out the words but his tone is pleading so it’s probably Adam. Keith isn’t sure what prompted their fight this time, but it’s probably Shiro’s tendency to do whatever the fuck he thinks is necessary and damn the consequences, which is nice and all in theory except Shiro is a firefighter and that means regularly playing chicken with death. 

Adam’s usually upset Shiro doesn’t have a shred of self preservation in his entire body — Shiro has already lost an entire  _ arm _ because he’s a selfless bastard — and Shiro’s too goddamn stubborn to change, but they always work it out. Despite the reoccurring issue, they still work fantastically well together, and Keith knows one of these days Shiro’s gonna be asking his opinion on rings. 

It’s really just a matter of time, and Keith hopes they make up sooner rather than later, because he doesn’t really need to handle drunk Shiro for the second time in a single week. That’s Adam’s job, he  _ chose _ Shiro. Keith’s just stuck with the guy.

…

Okay, this is a lie, because Keith’s not related to Shiro by blood. Shiro is his older brother, but it’s because Shiro adopted him and they’re too close in age for Keith to call him dad in any seriousness, even if he  _ is _ the dad friend. So, technically, Shiro and Keith chose each other too, but Keith  _ still _ doesn’t want to handle his drunk ass, so.

Adam’s job.

~

He forgets about the receipt until he finds it in the back of his phone case in the morning, where he’d put it for exactly this reason.

He unfolds it, making sure everything is in order, but he pauses when he notices there’s more writing than usual.

Namely, a  _ phone number _ , and a note.

_ Hey thanks for the car help! You’re really cute, I’d love to be friends? Call me if you’d like that too xx :) _

What the fuck?

Keith stares at the numbers and the cute, loopy handwriting until it stops looking like real words, and then he rubs his eyes to refocus and stares some more.

“Does that hold the secrets of the universe?” Shiro asks, nudging him.

Keith is standing in the middle of the kitchen with a cup of coffee still in his hand, and reality slams back into place abruptly. He immediately closes his hand around the receipt and shoves it in his pocket, but his pale complexion has already betrayed him, and a blush stains his cheeks.

Shiro grins, looking delighted by this. He’s already ready for the day, and his hair has been freshly dyed so it’s still snowy white and his eyeliner is as sharp as always. Keith hasn’t even attempted to brush his own hair yet, but Shiro is a fucking morning person, so this isn’t an unusual turn of events.

“Shut up,” Keith says, comeback of the year, taking a sip of his coffee so he doesn’t say anything worse.

“Did you get a  _ nuuuuuumber? _ ” Shiro sings, cackling when Keith’s blush worsens. “Holy shit! You  _ did!” _

How the hell does Shiro know that? Is he a mind reader? Does he have precognition? “What the fuck?” Keith blurts, almost choking,

“It’s the only thing that could be written on a receipt that would have you looking like that,” Shiro explains, positively beaming. “Was he cute?”

“Are you a thirteen year old girl?” Keith asks on reflex, wincing. That was mean. Thirteen year old girls aren’t a bad thing. Shiro says as much, and Keith rolls his eyes and waves a hand. Yeah, yeah, whatever. He knows.

“But was he?” Shiro prompts again, propping his chin on his hands, and now he’s just fucking with Keith.

Keith just frowns and sticks out his tongue, because he totally isn’t a grown adult with a job and a cat and dignity of any sort, clearly. Shiro’s expression is entirely too fucking knowing and Keith hates it.

Why did Lance have to go and be flirty as well as… well, okay. Yes,  _ fine _ , he’s  _ cute _ . But why’d he have to be flirty??

Keith’s not equipped to handle this shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yell at me


	3. how do i start? when you don't know what to say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keith's useless. title from bmth - i don't know what to say

Keith doesn’t call.

Keith doesn’t text, either.

The thing is, Keith’s anxiety is a bitch, and he’s pretty much convinced himself Lance is just overly flirty and overly forward and he probably does this to all the random mechanics his age that he meets, right? And this isn’t because of anything Keith has said or done, because Keith hadn’t  _ done _ anything. 

Lance is just teasing him.

That  _ has _ to be what this is, a prank, a joke,  _ something _ .

Keith doesn’t call and he doesn’t text and that fucking receipt looks ridiculous in Kolivan’s big hands and Kolivan stares at him in solid silence for thirty straight seconds and Keith is losing his goddamn mind. Keith is going to spontaneously combust right here next to a broken-down Honda Civic and it’s not even going to be a majestic death. It’s going to be pathetic and messy, just like he was in real life, and everyone is going to hate him.

“Can I leave?” He asks, which is a socially acceptable way of asking to go and lay in the middle of the street so someone can run him over and end his fucking misery.

Kolivan grunts.

This is not an answer in either direction, and Keith frowns, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his overalls and trying very hard not to fidget. It’s not working very well, and there’s a loose thread in his left pocket, so he pulls at that and tries to keep it as subtle as he can.

Kolivan finally gestures, and Keith bolts like the coward he is and gets elbows deep in a Toyota with a loose belt so he can shut his brain off and work until he’s too tired to turn it back on.

~

“You need friends,” Shiro says two days later, when Keith is laying face down on the living room floor and Black and Red are literally walking all over him purely to prove that they can.

“You can’t prove I don’t have any,” Keith says, muffled into the carpet. “Especially when I clearly do.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, and Keith hears his ankle crack as he steps over Keith and the cats. “Black and Red don’t count. Neither does Kolivan, since he isn’t your friend. Just your boss.”

“‘M friends with Ezor ‘n Zethrid,” Keith protests, still muffled because why would he move. He hasn’t ever seen them outside of the junkyard when it wasn’t them delivering something to the shop, but Shiro didn’t need to know that.

Shiro snorts anyway like he somehow  _ does _ , the bastard. Keith ignores him, and Red finally decides where he wants to curl up. His comfortable weight settles in, and normally Keith would be content to let him stay exactly where he was, but.

Red’s chosen his ass for a cushion, and that’s just kind of rude.

He rolls onto his side with a groan, slowly enough to give Red plenty of time to escape, and flops onto his back when he’s finished. He aims a half-hearted glare at Red, who stares back in what is at best mild annoyance and is more likely complete indifference, and then Red climbs pointedly onto his stomach and begins making biscuits.

He loves his cat so much.

~

Now that he doesn’t have the receipt, he actually has a legitimate reason for never calling or texting Lance. He couldn’t go into the office and pull the receipt from the folder to note the number down somewhere else, because that would be ridiculous. 

No, he is now totally unable to do the thing. 

This is what he tells himself as he works on yet another engine, and he keeps telling himself this until that damn blue car rolls into the shop and he has to face his fuck-ups like an adult. 

...

He makes Kolivan greet Lance because he’s a coward. 

Lance is as pretty as ever and Keith is just...a fucking  _ coward _ , and if he can avoid his problems, he will. He has a very strong fight-or-flight response to little stimuli, and he usually tends to fight but right now he’s liking flight. It’s dumb and  _ he’s _ dumb, but he’s also got just a touch too much anxiety to deal with this shit. 

Lance, to his credit, only shoots him a smile when Keith isn’t fast enough to hide himself under a car. He rolls beneath it immediately to hide his red cheeks, but instead of working on it, he just lets out a silent scream and resists the urge to rub his face, since he doesn’t want grease in his pores any more than it already is. 

Fuck. 

Why the fuck is Keith so fucking useless around pretty boys? Are all gays like this, or is he just a fucking disgrace? An outlier like always, unable to function in even the most basic of situations. A true disaster.

Exzor had once told him he’s exactly the stereotype of Disaster Gay, and right now he’s finally starting to realize she’s right. It’s embarrassing how often he falls into dumb little stereotypes because most of his day-to-day clothes are still leftover Hot Topic shirts and jeans from high school.

He really  _ is _ a disaster, but...he really likes the fucking aesthetics of ripped jeans and distressed shirts. Sue him.

“Keith,” Kolivan says, and, shit. That’s his Time To Do What I Say voice, his  _ Dad _ voice, and Kolivan’s got about as many emotions as your average brick, but it  _ still _  manages to come off as reprimanding and guiding at the same fucking time.

Kolivan’s gonna make him talk to Lance.

He pretends not to hear.

“Keith,” Kolivan repeats, sounding closer, and then there’s a heavy foot planted on the boards he’s on and he’s neatly rolled out from under the car, pink cheeks and all.

Keith could’ve used the actual car lift and brought the car above his head, but he honestly kind of hates that thing and it’s not nearly as easy to hide beneath. He really wants to hide right now.

Lance’s smile is warm and amused and his blue eyes are bright in the afternoon sunlight, and Keith can see the dozens and dozens of freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks, and the gentle curl of his acorn brown hair, and  _ god _ Keith is  _ weak _ . He can’t even look away, even when it makes his cheeks burn brighter.

“Hiya, cowboy,” Lance says, and his tone is playful. Keith thinks he’s making fun of Keith’s faint southern drawl, which he’s tried unsuccessfully to completely kill and which still twists the occasional word. 

Keith’s internal monologue is just the word  _ fuck _ on loop in varying degrees of distress, so he doesn’t say anything in reply, which is awkward. He waves a little to make up for it, but Lance doesn’t seem bothered. 

“So my dad tweaked with the engine and he noticed I need a new, uh.” Lance glances at the car, brows furrowed. “Uh. I actually forget exactly what he said, but I think it was something about the A/C? I think it’s that 'cause it’s not blowing cold anymore.”

“Coolant leak, probably,” Keith says on reflex, and he thanks his several years of mechanical experience for bailing his ass out of this fucking awkwardness.

“I think that’s it,” Lance agrees, nodding. “But he said I should find one mechanic and trust that one guy if he does a good job, and you did a good job, so…?”

Keith sits up, giving up on the faint hope of hiding back under the Ford he’d been attempting to find something to tweak to avoid exactly this interaction. “And you picked me?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, cocking an eyebrow and then clasping both hands in front of him, dramatic. “Will you be my mechanic? I’d get down on one knee, but these jeans are designer.”

Keith looks down. The jeans are faded, shredded at the cuffs, and busted at the knees by what is definitely wear and tear judging by the uneven placement of the holes. They also looked like they’d once been skinny, but no longer clung that tightly to Lance’s frame. He snorts before he can stop himself, but it makes Lance give him a dazzling smile.

He still blushes as bright as a fucking stoplight, and immediately, he reaches down and pulls the bandanna around his neck up and over his nose to hide it. He’s glad Kolivan has already walked away, because if anyone else had to watch this fucking trainwreck, he’d never be able to live it down. He’s doubting  _ Lance _ will let him live it down, judging by the sheer joy that has now entered his eyes at Keith’s pathetic attempt to hide his traitor cheeks.

“Fine,” Keith says, and he sighs, giving up on the bandana. He really only had it because the construction site next door can kick up some serious dust when all the men leave for the day, and he quite likes not sneezing his brains out when it happens.

“You’re a peach,” Lance says immediately, holding out a hand to help him up. “In more ways than one.”

Keith has no idea what that means, but he takes Lance’s hand and lets Lance lift him. He’s got a little grease on his fingers and he isn’t the lightest person anymore, but Lance offered and Keith wants some payback for all this fucking blushing, so fine.

Lance hauls him up as easy as breathing and looks like it took no effort at all, and his hand is warm and calloused on the fingertips and the palm is still so soft, and it’s an overwhelmingly nice texture from what Keith gets through his work gloves. Up close, he can see even  _ more _ of Lance’s freckles. 

Keith wishes he needed glasses, purely so he didn’t have to see all of this up so close and so clear and get it ingrained in his memory so quickly. Alas, he’s cursed with decent vision and a mind that hates him enough to replay this image at inopportune times, and he looks away before he can count the shades of blue in Lance’s eyes like the unbearably weak man he is.

“Coolant,” Keith says, letting go of Lance’s hand — oh god, had he held it  _ after _ he stood? He hates himself. Goddamnit. He’s useless — and he’s checking the fucking engine. He’s got a  _ task. _

He lifts the hood of the car and does his best to ignore Lance as he checks for the issue.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lance said keith's a peach and lance thought about the peach emoji hardcore. 
> 
> i'm not dead, i'm just living in hell and i'm moving soon and should be less constantly fucking stressed out of my mind, which should mean the ability to write may finally come back from it's roadtrip to the hell out of the reach of my spoons. hopefully, anyway. enjoy disaster gay keith and a lance that is having the time of his life, hopefully we'll see more soon.


	4. lately i'll bend, smile, and pretend to be stable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Composure - Real Friends
> 
> __
> 
> hey kids. not dead! anyway, this chapter contains vivid descriptions of anxiety. i'm in a way better place rn myself and hopefully will be able to begin to shorten my garbage length update gap, but i'm not dumb enough to promise it. i AM promising that i'll try, though! i love these boys and this fic and i wanna do it justice.

It’s an easy fix and he’s done in thirty minutes, and he desperately, desperately wants Kolivan to handle the payment, but he’s on lunch. Keith’s standing in the office and coming to terms with this, and he knows Lance is out in the waiting room reading whatever random magazines Kolivan finds in the junk mail and humming along to the tinny radio. 

Once upon a time back in middle school, Keith had been diagnosed with general anxiety. His foster family at the time had been alerted to this, but he’d been twelve and they hadn’t given a fuck, so it had never really been treated. Usually, this is fine. Usually, he’s functional and can get himself through the day with minimal to no issues.

It’s biting him in the ass right now, though, this denial.

He braces his hands on the edge of the desk and breathes, measured, hoping it’ll calm his racing heart just a little. Just  _ enough _ , he doesn’t need much. Just enough to let his hands stay steady and his voice to stay even as he completes this transaction. It’s just a few minutes, Lance needs to sign a slip and hand Keith his card and then he can come back in here and hide for another minute or two while the card clears. It’ll be fine.

So why the fuck does he feel so jittery?

He’s been standing in here too long, and he’s keeping Lance, and that adds a whole extra layer of guilty anxiety that turns his stomach. He’s normally  _ fine _ , this is  _ maddening _ . He doesn’t really drink and he’s never been a huge fan of smoking, but he’d kill for either one of them at the moment just to buy him a few fucking minutes of pseudo calm.

He knows another method, but he’s not really sure this counts as desperate enough of a circumstance. It works, it always works, but it’s dangerous and Shiro will cry about it, and Keith’s really not emotionally equipped for the aftermath.

What a goddamn shame he isn’t equipped for this either, right?

“Fuck,” he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s okay. He’s okay. He’s a fucking adult, this is a thing he can do. it’s maybe ten minutes of embarrassment and then it’s over and he can probably beg to clock off early and go home.

That’s it.

He can do it.

***

It takes him five entire extra minutes to convince his legs to move, but he does make it back out to the front with the invoice, laying it on the counter quietly.

Blessedly, he doesn’t need to say anything to get Lance’s attention. Lance hops up the moment he comes out of the office, and Keith’s met with a charming smile and warm blue eyes.

He feels his cheeks burn again and drops his eyes to the counter, shoving his hands in the pockets of his overalls and really wishing he was in his normal clothes because he kept a butterfly knife in his jacket and it was a great fidget.

“That was quick,” Lance notes, pulling the invoice close and looking over it. “And super reasonable, awesome! Hey, thanks man, I really appreciate this. I’m glad I didn’t need to do an appointment or anything, driving without A/C in this hot ass weather is the  _ worst _ .”

He keeps chattering, but Keith honestly tunes him out, just watching for the card. When it hits the counter, Keith reaches out and snags it, disappearing back into the office as quickly as he can move and leaning against the closed door to catch his breath.

He feels like a fucking wind up cymbal monkey toy, twisted all the way to the max and on the verge of a frenzy. His heart’s made a home in his throat and it’s making it hard to swallow, and he hasn’t had to go through anything this intense in  _ months _ and  _ god _ , what the  _ fuck _ . Keith’s seen attractive men before and managed not to get himself so far in his own head that he has a fucking meltdown over it, so why the fuck is Lance any different?

He can feel the fuzziness of disassociation creeping in at the edges of his mind, and he welcomes it with open arms. Autopilot clicks on, and he’s able to run Lance’s card through a haze. It’ll suck coming back into himself later, probably, but he’s going more numb by the second and it’s too much of a relief to worry about right now.

The receipt prints, and he checks out entirely as he grabs it.

***

“Keith,” someone says, and it’s quiet and warm and familiar. “Keith? Hey, look at me.”

At what?

He squints, and it’s a bit of a struggle but he starts to focus on something in front of him. Dark eyes.

Dark eyes with expertly subtle cat eye. Shiro?

Why’s Shiro at the garage?

“Keith?” Shiro prompts again, and the rest of him comes into focus. He’s crouched in front of Keith, hands on Keith’s knees, and...Keith’s in his living room? And not in his work clothes?

Huh. Autopilot took him far.

“Hey,” Shiro says, just a tad sharper. “Hey, no, come back. You were almost back with me there. C’mon, look at me again.”

Oh, he’d kind of wandered off to stare into...the kitchen, maybe? he looks back at Shiro, who’s shifting to lift something up.

Red’s familiar weight lands in his lap, and he feels the gentle scratch of his claws poke through Keith’s sweatpants, and it’s the start of his senses coming back online. Instinct raises Keith’s hands to Red’s fur, and Red’s tail swishes and then he’s headbutting Keith with no small amount of force, smacking his forehead into Keith’s jaw and letting out a little yell.

“Hi, Red,” Keith says, because Red’s clearly pissed he didn’t get his usual pets and greeting when Keith came home. “Sorry.”

Shiro lets out a breath of relief and stands up, ruffling Keith’s hair as he does. “Welcome back, kid. Adam’s on his way, wants to make dinner with me tonight. You okay with that?”

Shiro’s also asking if he’s okay in the general sense, Keith knows, but he just shrugs a little anyway. “Sure.”

Red squirms, pushing into Keith’s hands with each pet and purring up a storm, and Keith’s glad. It’s exactly what he needs, something sensory that he can focus on until he stops feeling so fucking disoriented.

He has  _ no _ idea how he got home, because he drives a motorcycle and that’s not exactly the kind of thing you should be doing on autopilot, but since he’s not being arrested at the moment he probably didn’t kill anybody. He doesn’t really remember how the end of the day went, or even how he handled the end of dealing with Lance.

And, fuck, that must’ve been so  _ weird _ , because Keith’s zoned out at work once or twice before and apparently he’s nicer and more polite when he’s checked out of his head. Probably because none of the dumb shit people say registers, but it was probably still jarring for Lance to see him come out of the office with a personality transplant.

Keith lets his head fall back, cringing. Shit.

***

Dinner’s awkward, because Shiro clearly knows Something Is Up, but he’s doing this fucking thing he does where he lets Keith have his space in the hopes that maybe Keith will either handle it himself or come to Shiro for help, like that’s ever happened.

He could, Keith knows. He  _ could _ go to Shiro for help, but he won’t. There’s too many years of deeply ingrained self-hatred for that, unfortunately. He’s in this fucking mess out of his own dumbass volition, and he’ll sit in in until he can figure out a way to dig himself back out again.

Adam’s a welcome distraction for Shiro, probably, but hell on Keith’s frayed nerves and fried senses. He excuses himself after only half a plate of dinner, and ducks into his room and locks the door behind him, sliding down to sit on the floor and lean against it.

He closes his eyes, swallowing past the lump in his throat, and tries to make peace with his fuck ups.

So he’d embarrassed himself utterly and completely in front of Lance, and then again, and then  _ again _ , and then zoned out and probably came off as some kind of fucked up robot before going about his day without remembering a goddamn thing about it. So what?

…

Yeah, this isn’t working. If anything, now he just feels  _ more _ sick.

*** 

He gets a text from an unknown number the next morning around eleven, and he’d just managed to tamp down his stupid anxiety enough to get out of bed, feed Red, and start a pot of coffee.

The text sends him right back to where he started.

_ hi it’s lance, you gave me your # yesterday but you seemed super out of it and i just wanna make sure ur ok? if this is weird you totally don’t have to respond i promise i’m just a worrywart _

Jesus  _ fuck, _ what the hell did he  _ do _ yesterday? What did he say? What did  _ Lance _ say that let him guide autopilot Keith into giving out his fucking phone number?

He’s gonna throw up.

He’s sitting on the kitchen floor in his flannel pj pants and an old ripped black shirt and he is gonna throw up on the off-white tiles and Red is gonna get all offended at having to smell it.

And then he’s gonna have to fucking clean it up.

It’s honestly the thought of the mess that makes him swallow it back and tip his head back to slam into the cabinets, trying and failing to knock some sense back into himself. What the fuck is happening? Why is this thing, this little flirtation causing him so much fucking anxiety?

He makes a frustrated sound and squeezes his eyes shut, counting backwards from fifty and trying to control his breathing and force it to even out. Forty-six, forty-five, forty-four, in. Forty-three, forty-two, forty-one, out. In, out, in, out, count the seconds.

It doesn’t work super well, but it does ease the nausea enough for his thoughts to run clear. Still fast as fuck, but clearer.

He should reply, right? Even if it’s just ‘I’m fine, lose my number.’

He should reply.

He stares at his phone instead, unable to bring himself to reach out and touch it from where he’d pushed it away on the floor.

Fuck, he hates this.

***

Shiro eventually comes home and finds Keith with his head on his knees, a child in the shape of a man. Useless, useless, useless.

Shiro, incredible brother that he is, doesn’t say anything. He just sits down next to Keith, close enough that their shoulders brush, and starts up a game of Sudoku on his phone because he’s actually ninety-seven years old and not somewhere in his thirties (Keith’s bad with dates and ages).

Keith leans into the sturdy warmth and drops his head on Shiro’s shoulder because it’s far more comfortable than leaving it on his knees. They still don’t speak, and he watches Shiro solve the puzzle almost effortlessly. He goes through another one, and then swaps out for a crossword app, and Keith can’t help himself from filling in a blank he can’t believe Shiro isn’t getting.

“43 down is Richard,” he says, referring to the question of Nightwing’s first name. It’s a Batman-themed crossword, apparently, which Keith guesses is better than 80s trivia or whatever, but it’s still a crossword.

“Isn’t his name Dick?” Shiro says, confused, but then it clicks and he huffs. “Right. I’m a fool.”

“I coulda told you that,” Keith quips, lifting his head and stretching out each of his limbs one by one, feeling them pop from the cramped positioning. “But at least you’re learning to recognize it in yourself.”

Shiro snorts and ruffles Keith’s hair, rolling to his feet with the grace of a jungle cat, the bastard. Keith’s joints are gonna sound like he’s eighty now, just because whatever Shiro does, Keith manages to somehow fuck up.

He sighs, and takes the offered hand up instead of bothering to try himself. He pockets his phone as he’s lifted, and decides to ignore the text for now. It’s stressing him out too fucking much, he’ll deal with it later when he can look at it without his breathing getting faster.

***

  
  



	5. i don't wanna know who i am, 'cause heaven only knows what i'll find

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's alright - mother mother
> 
> (im not dead im just having trouble focusing long enough to write, rip)

**_im okay_ **

Keith hits send before he can overthink it and takes a long sip of his beer, lowering his head onto his arms.

He needs better coping mechanisms. And he needs to stop falling back onto shit he  _ knows _ doesn’t work, like drinking, which is what he’s doing right now. You know, like an  _ idiot. _

He’s at a party, something Shiro wanted to go to and Adam tagged along to to watch over him, and now  _ Keith’s  _ involved. It’s mostly because Keith’s bad at making choices and even worse at impulse control when he  _ does _ make them.

He gets a response to that text pretty quickly, because of course he does.

_ oh good!!! im glad! _

Why’s Lance gotta be such a dork? Keith’s weak for dorks. 

Keith’s weak.

He takes another sip of beer, and presses the empty can down until it’s relatively flat against the table, frowning. He’s fucking  _ useless _ , this isn’t even a difficult conversation. It’s just a conversation, and that in general tends to make his skin crawl. Figures.

He stares at the text until his eyes burn, and them he blinks and looks away and tries to convince himself it’s totally fine if he deletes Lance’s number and moves out of state. It’s fine and it’s not cowardly and he’s definitely doing totally fine with his anxiety and in no way needs to go back to therapy or anything. It’s cool. He’s cool.

“You look like you’re having a blast,” Adam says, sliding into the seat next to Keith. 

“I am,” Keith says, with absolutely zero truth behind it. “All my friends are here.”

Adam knows Keith is only friends with him and Shiro, and that both are more out of situational convenience than out of any work on Keith’s part. Adam knows Keith knows this, and Keith knows Adam is exasperated about it.

“You’re such a strange child,” Adam says, leaning back and looking away and missing the probable pout Keith has on. Adam’s well aware Keith hates being called a child, which is why he does it. Bastard.

“Shut up,” Keith says, comeback of the year, opening his phone again to go to the homescreen and try to find an app that lessens the desire to cease existing for a few moments.

He ends up on the same dumb app he always does, the one that mimics the old arcade-style space games where he’s shooting pixelated lasers at alien ships and trying to avoid getting abducted — though there are cases when that’s useful, if he knows what he’s doing. Extra life, and all.

He loses three full minutes in the game, wishing he’s remembered his headphones so he could at least muffle the annoying bass-boosted beats with the little  _ blips _ and  _ boops _ of the app.

He gets another text.

_ sorry if im being annoying but i was wondering if you’d be okay with me talking to you? totes fine to say no you’re just super nice and i like making new friends! _

Who the fuck says  _ totes _ anymore? Lance, apparently.

Keith’s little ship gets hit by a stray alien beam and the game loss animation plays, and he rubs his face. It’s a fucking metaphor.

Is he in a John Green novel? He’d rather die. Brutally.

“Three losses in one sitting?” Adam asks, stealing Keith’s unopened second beer and cracking the metal top open, the hiss of the carbonation lost in the noise of the part. “Something must be  _ really  _ bothering you, I’ve watched you beat ten levels without even blinking before, and that was you starting at level one.”

“I’m aware,” Keith says, leaving his hands over his face and his phone on the table. “I’m fine.”

It’s a lie. Adam likely knows, but he has the grace to leave it be for the moment.

To be fair, this is less because Adam is a good person and generally Keith’s favorite pseudo-parent in his extremely fucked dysfunctional found family, and a lot more because Shiro has finally made an appearance in the room and he’s making a beeline right for Adam with a beaming smile. “ _ Dance _ with me!”

“You’re a whole new person when you’re drunk,” Adam says, but it’s not a protest. He’s already up and taking Shiro’s hands with a smile of his own, and Keith pulls the stolen beer back over and brings it up to his lips.

A flash of blue catches his eye, and it’s reflective, so he blinks and focuses. And then he realizes it’s one of those shiny transparent holographic windbreakers, and it’s draped over tanned, freckled arms.  _ Lance’s _ tanned freckled arms.

What the  _ fuck _ kind of anti-Keith biased universal odds? Is this real life? It can’t be. There’s literally no way Keith has this much fucking shit luck in one month.

He wants to die on the spot, which is really fucking dramatic, but come  _ on _ , he came here to  _ escape _ this shit. And this means Lance had been  _ texting him while at a party _ , like Keith’s somehow more important, and what the  _ fuck _ is up with that shit?

Lance is with two friends, and they’re just as unfairly good looking as he is, though not necessarily also Keith’s type (and thank  _ god _ , Lance alone is going to kill him and grant his death wish). 

The taller of the two is a big guy with warm bronze skin and thick black hair held off his face with an orange band, which should look eighties as hell but somehow doesn’t, not on him. He’s like if two of Keith were glued together and spent as much time in the gym as Shiro, but it’s not in a muscle-bound tortilla-chip body shape kind of way; instead, he’s sturdy, with a strong core and big hands and big arms. A smile even bigger, too, his teeth a flash of bright white as he laughs.

The second figure is petite, a lithe figure with pale skin and russet brown hair cropped short to just below the jaw, fluffed out on all sides in a wild, untamed sort of curl. Big silver circle wire-rimmed circle glasses are perched on their nose, and they’re wearing baggy clothes and a big, amused smile. Keith doesn’t find a lean toward any particular gender presentation on them, so he doesn’t bother with defining it in his head.

Lance hasn’t noticed him, and is pouting at his friends, all blue eyes and puffed lower lip, and Keith really wishes he hadn’t looked over, because now he can’t stop.

It takes what feels like mere moments for Lance’s eyes to drift over, lock onto him, and widen.

Keith’s fight, flight or freeze kicks in again and thank  _ god _ it’s flight this time, because he’s out of his seat and beelining to the patio to let the cooler air outside try and soothe his burning cheeks. In the back of his mind, there’s a little voice that sounds so oddly like Kolivan that it almost makes him stop, and it says he’s sending Lance horribly mixed signals by letting him continue to flirt and then continuously running away, or whatever.

Keith’s pretty sure that's bullshit and is just his anxiety trying to make him feel like shit, but there are times when he just isn’t quite sure if that’s it or if he  _ is _ being genuinely shitty. Hopefully it’s the former, but he wouldn’t be overly surprised if it wasn’t. He’s a pretty shitty person.

The sliding glass door behind him opens again far too soon, and he doesn’t bother hoping it’s some random stranger. Lance’s face had flashed concern the moment he’d stood and ran.

“Hey,” Lance says behind him, soft, and the sounds of the party are slowly muffled as the door slides closed again. “I, um. Am just now realizing this could be really pushy and a really bad idea. I’d say I’m not usually this impulsive, but that’d be a lie.”

Keith doesn’t turn, not yet. Lance’s voice is picking up speed.

“I mean, I’m not, like, ‘jump off a bridge because it looks fun’ impulsive, but, you know. I blurt things out a lot. Follow people when they find me annoying. It’s, uh, the ADHD? I’m really bad at knowing when people want me around or want me to leave. You can totally tell me to fuck off if you want me to leave, and that’s totally cool.” Lance hasn’t really taken a breath. 

“Lance,” Keith blurts, and it’s the first time he’s said Lance’s name out loud and also the first time he’s interrupted anyone in a very long time, because he doesn’t care much for talking and he cares less for attention on himself. 

Lance stops, quieting.

Slowly, Keith makes himself turn around, lean against the railing of the patio, take him in.

Lance is fidgeting with the zipper of his ridiculous windbreaker, and Keith realizes now that it’s layered over a simple fitted  _ X Files _ shirt. He’s not quite looking at Keith, and there’s a hint of a pink blush dusting his cheeks, barely visible in the shitty yellow patio lighting. The moon’s far away, and the city’s light pollution hides the stars.

When Keith doesn’t really continue, Lance slowly looks up, meeting his eyes. The blush grows brighter, and Keith has to shift his hands, uncrossing his arms to grip the bannister against his back so he doesn’t do anything stupid like impulsively reach out and touch Lance’s pretty flushed cheeks.

“I, uh,” Lance says, and stops. He shifts, planting his feet a little wider and lifting his head up all the way again, and oh. Keith hadn’t really paid much attention to it before, but Lance has an inch or two on him. It isn’t much, not enough to make much of a difference, but Keith would have to look up if he got closer.

Keith arches a brow, waiting for Lance to continue now that he’d gone and taken the responsibility off of Keith. Lance seems to realize this too, and he frowns, almost a pout. Keith valiantly resists looking at his mouth directly.

“Are you okay with me talking to you?” Lance finally asks, relaxing into an easier stance. 

Slowly, Keith nods. He is, genuinely, even if it makes him panicky. Most things make him panicky.

“Okay, cool.” Lance runs a hand through his hair, and the short brown curls ruffle under his fingers. “Are you okay with me flirting with you?”

Ah. That’s slightly more complex, isn’t it? Keith looks away for a moment, watching the lazy drift of a moth as it contemplates the dim light bulb in the old, probably wobbly fixture on the wall. The moth decides, rushes forward, and smashes uselessly against the bulb in that face first, inelegant insect way. 

_ Same, _ Keith thinks.

He drags his thoughts back to Lance’s question, absently chewing on his bottom lip. On one hand, Lance flirting increases the panicky feeling because not only is there attention on him, it’s  _ close _ attention.

On the other, Lance flirting with him sends butterflies dancing in his stomach, and the part of him that isn’t panicking is fucking loving the shaky giddness. So, really, he has to decide what part of him is the part he wants to value more.

It should be easy. Self-care says to pick the happy part. Self-preservation, on the other hand, is driven by anxiety, and currently screaming that he should reject Lance, go home and pack all his belongings, and then move to the middle of the desert to live in a shack where no one will ever contact him ever again.

Keith’s anxiety needs to stop being a dramatic fucking bitch. 

“It’s okay to say no,” Lance repeats, and it’s soft. Sweet. 

Keith sighs, dragging a hand through his hair and facing Lance again, even if it makes his heart crawl into his throat and lodge itself there firmly. Lance is so pretty, and he’s so genuine, and Keith...Keith’s genuinely attracted to him. Lance seems like the kind of guy who’d respect if Keith changed his mind, too, so he. 

He nods. Carefully. 

Lance’s smile lights up his entire face, and Keith wouldn’t be surprised if another moth came over to sacrifice itself to Lance's brightness. It’s  _ that _ pretty. 

Keith can only stand a few seconds before he looks away, cheeks warming. 

“You have a really cute blush,” Lance says, excited. 

Keith automatically blushes considerably brighter at that, and lets his head dip, hair falling forward to hide it. 

“Sorry, but it’s true.” Lance doesn’t sound very sorry at all, only delighted. “Like, don’t get me wrong,  _ all _ of you is cute, but that blush is just adorable.”

Keith flushes even brighter, and he’d pull his hands through his hair to stim if it didn’t mean uncovering more of his face. as it is, he settles for yanking on the strings of his hoodie, butterflies dancing wildly in his stomach. He realizes the moments he goes to yank with both hands that he still has a can of beer in his hands, and for once, he’s actually glad for it. 

He immediately drains it, feeling Lance’s eyes linger on him, and he swallows the last gulp before he lowers his head again, still pink but hoping at least if a buzz sets in he can  _ chill the fuck out _ for a moment.

Lance’s gaze is heady. “Well,” he says, simple. “That was hot.”

Keith’s blush is so bright now he feels like he’s going to spontaneously combust, and he lobs the can into the recycling bin on the other side of the porch and rubs his face, exasperated. He’s a fucking  _ adult _ , he should be able to handle a fucking conversation without having an internal meltdown.

“Was it?” he says, letting the exasperation with himself steady his tone. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“Most of the hottest things aren’t,” Lance says, shrugging, leaning against the wall. “I’m not a big fan of staged hotness. Accidental, though? Oh, sign me  _ right _ up.”

Keith looks over at him, a little amused and now even a little exasperated with Lance, but only because he’s starting to realize Lance can make  _ anything _ into a flirt, apparently.

Lance beams back at him. “Beer help? I’ve been there. Nothing wrong with a little liquid courage, cowboy.”

It’s a dumb nickname and Keith hates that he still doesn’t mind it. “Sometimes. I don’t usually go to parties.”

Lance nods, understanding. “It’s pretty intense, so many people and all the sound. I used to not be able stand them, but then I got therapy and anxiety meds and I’m now a reasonable functional social human being in these situations, which is nice. I don’t miss the anxiety attacks.”

“Wait,” Keith says, genuinely surprised. “You mean you…?”

“Got panic and anxiety attacks at parties?” Lance fills in, nodding again. “Yep! All the damn time. Everywhere else, too. High school sucked, but I survived. It gets easier once you start working on managing how you handle stimuli a bit better, and the meds certainly help up the threshold for what can overwhelm me.”

Keith rubs the side of his face, looking up at the night sky. There’s maybe three or four stars visible with all the light pollution in this area, but he’s not looking for much, unfocused. Maybe he  _ should _ look into finding his old therapist’s business card. He hadn’t seen the man since his own time in high school, but it had been kind of nice to have someone to rant to when he was still in the foster system.

At the very least, maybe the office can refer him to one that handles adults.

He sighs, shifting his feet. “I haven’t been in a while,” he says, tired. “I dunno. I never really tried medication, and the little bit of therapy I had was more counseling sessions about the traumas of moving from the foster system into a home and other stupid bullshit. Coaching me on not being mad about it all the time, I guess. Didn’t really work, I kinda just yelled the whole time.”

Lance makes a sympathetic sound. “Yeah, not every therapist will click with you. it can be a bitch to find one that both works and is within your budget, but I can recommend trying the university campus training center. Free sessions because they’re training in their last semesters, and all. It’s what I did when I was broke and miserable all the time.”

Keith looks over, surprisingly more at ease with this heavier topic. Maybe it was because he’d already come to terms with the fact that his mental health was shot to shit already, maybe because vulnerability made Lance softer, maybe Keith’s brain was just made up of terrible neural pathways and nothing really ever made sense anyway. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. They can’t prescribe you medication, but it’s nice having someone to talk to and get help from. They taught me a lot of new coping mechanisms and such, and it was nice.” Lance shrugs. “Like I said, it’s free. Worth a shot, if you’re wondering if it’ll work for you or not.”

Keith nods, and before he can respond, the patio door opens again and Adam’s head poked out. 

“ _ There _ you are,” Adam says, not even noticing Lance. “Shiro’s falling asleep on the couch, you ready to head out?”

Keith’s cheeks are pink again, and he glances to Lance, embarrassed. Lance’s smile is easy, though, and he waves a hand. “Go on, cowboy. You can always text me later.”

Keith can  _ feel _ Adam’s wide eyes and delighted smirk as soon as he notices Lance, so he strides forward, puts a hand on Adam’s face, and shoves him back inside. “Yeah, I will. Sorry, I gotta go. Shiro’s a useless drunk and Adam can’t lift him alone.”

Lance only laughs. “I bet, he’s like three of me. Have fun, get home safe. If you feel up to it, text me and let me know you did.”

Keith’s heart warms, because that’s cute as shit. He can feel Adam’s smirk and budding laughter, though, so he only nods, manages to flash Lance a tiny smile, and shoves his way back inside.

  
  



End file.
